


Hebrews 12:11

by elithewho



Category: Robin Hood (2010)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bondage, Dirty Talk, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Mommy Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: She was the queen of England, and would not allow anyone to bully her, even the king himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ignoring any semblance of historical accuracy because who care. John is the ultimate fuckboy and fuckboys get spanked in my world.
> 
> Hebrews 12:11 (KJV)
> 
> Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.

It was well past Vigils when John stumbled into her bedchamber, stinking drunk and all hands. Isabella had come to expect him every few nights, after he had enjoyed the ale and tavern wenches. In the early days of his courtship he had sought her with perseverance, flattering her and attending to her admirably in bed. He had dipped his head between her thighs and then bestowed such a smug, cocky grin that Isabella had had the urge to slap him, but she curbed that impulse. To become queen was all she wanted and an attentive husband had been an extra sweet addition.

After their wedding and after the Archbishop had laid the crown on her head, John had seemed to forget all the work he had put into wooing her. He liked novelty, the excitement of the pursuit, and once she was his lawful wife, he didn’t seem overly concerned with pleasing her. On the nights he stumbled into her bed to perform his husbandly duty and beget his heirs, he’d drunkenly grope at her, use her body to complete his pleasure and then roll over to fall asleep. 

Isabella was sick of it. She felt him behind her, pawing at her breasts, smelling of ale and smoke, that perfumed stink of common _English_ whores. He pressed his hard prick against her backside and slurred something unintelligible against her neck. Isabella sighed in annoyance. If she had wanted to be treated like a breeding mare, she would have stayed in France.

She lay on her back dutifully, hoping he would at least have the decency to be quick about it. The moon was high and bright through the window, casting him in luminous blue light. His curls were loose, falling over his forehead. His usually neat beard was unkempt, his cheeks dotted with dark stubble. He only wore a loose shirt and unlaced breeches. How she had once enjoyed their bedtime adventures!

Isabella’s annoyance was getting the better of her. She was the queen of England, and would not allow anyone to bully her, even the king himself. She grabbed him by the wrist, startling him enough to overpowering him quickly. He was stronger than her of course, but at the moment he was drunk, caught off guard. Quick as lightning, Isabella had him at her mercy, turned over her knee with both wrists at the small of his back. She pulled loose the silk cord that held her robe together and used it to swiftly tie his wrists together, a small, secure knot that left him utterly helpless before her.

“How dare you!” he spat, furious and mortified. 

His feet kicked uselessly and all his angry fumbling could not dislodge him. He was a landed fish and Isabella smirked, enjoying his predicament.

“You must be _débile_ to think I will continue to lie there for you like one of your tavern wenches,” she informed him.

“Unhand me, you stupid French cow,” he growled viciously, twisting appealingly in her lap.

Isabella smiled thinly, the same courteous expression she had mastered as a young girl, preparing for court. The smile which masked venom. She admired the sight before her, his face rapidly turning red from his impotent rage, his pleasant weight in her lap, his rump perfectly on display. 

“I do not think you were properly disciplined as a child, _mon cher_ ,” she said carefully, lightly touching his _derrière_ through his breeches. “And what does the Bible say about the rod and the child…”

“You’ll pay for this,” he choked out, voice strained by his futile attempts to escape.

Isabella only chuckled at that. She only wished she could light a candle and illuminate his red face and mulish expression more clearly so she could cherish it. Instead, she took hold of his loosened breeches and pulled them down over his backside, admiring its fine plumpness. She patted a cheek fondly and John squirmed minutely in her lap. She felt a tingle of victory low in her stomach. Perhaps he would enjoy this too, almost as much as her.

The first slap startled him enough that he let out a sharp gasp, almost a yelp, a supremely undignified sound. She hit him again, in the same spot, enjoying the way he twitched in her lap and the skin of his cheek pinked up.

“Such a lovely round _cul, mon amour_ ,” she muttered, never ceasing in her slaps. “Almost like _une jeune fille_.” 

She heard him grunt, affronted at such casual humiliation. Isabella was hitting him with all her might now, the sound of sharp, hard slaps filling her chamber. The sounds he made were growing more distressed, verging into damp, watery whimpers. All the while, his hips worked against her thigh, and she knew from the hardness of his cock still trapped in his breeches that he was enjoying this in spite of himself.

Deeply pleased, Isabella pinched a stinging cheek, glowing hotly now. John whined and then weakly sniveled when she trailed her nails against his sensitive skin.

“Did your royal _mère_ not take the time to properly discipline you, _mon cher_? It’s as if you’ve never been spanked before.” Teasingly, Isabella squeezed a full cheek, making him thrust into her leg. “I do not think your _bite_ would get so hard for dear mummy, would it?”

To punctuate the jab, Isabella slapped his stinging cheek again and rubbed her leg deliberately against his straining erection. John groaned, pressing his hot face into the mattress, desperate to escape the shame. 

“Or maybe it would…” she said thoughtfully. She laid her hand tenderly upon the dimple below a plump cheek and his thickly muscled thigh and tangled her other hand in his mop of curls. Isabella pulled at her handful of thick hair, tugging at him until he was forced to incline his head, revealing his damp, tear-stained face to her. “Are you ready to apologize for your ill treatment of me, _ma colombe?_ ” she asked sweetly.

John regarded her with big, shimmering eyes. His mouth was still curved into an obstinate scowl. “I will not…” he gritted out through his teeth.

Isabella produced a dramatic sigh and slapped him hard with her open palm, reveling in the sharp crack and the way his eyes fluttered closed, damp eyelashes dark on his reddened cheeks. She hit him a few more times and he bit his lip hard, squirming deliciously in her lap. It was clear he was trying vainly to get himself off against her thigh. His cock was hard and hot on her skin and she could feel a damp patch forming through his breeches and her thin robe. 

“Now now, _petite fleur_ ,” she chastised gently, widening her thighs so that his cock could not rub against her.

At that, John whined pathetically and Isabella giggled, feeling entirely giddy, like a maiden on May Day. At the moment Isabella longed for something more substantial than her hand, which was starting to smart from smacking him so hard. A thick leather belt would do just fine, or a supple birch branch. She had been punished thusly for being disrespectful in her youth and she knew the rod or belt would leave painful red marks for days afterwards. How she longed to lay those marks upon her king’s royal _derrière_.

For the time being, she had to work with her hands. John was nearly panting in her lap and she dropped his head, stroking his hot neck as she licked her thumb and slipped it between his cheeks. John yelped, like a startled puppy as she brushed her damp thumb against his hole. Isabella grinned to herself.

“Have you never been breached here, _mon chiot_? Surely a man so practiced in debauchery has let someone in this greedy hole.”

Her crude language must have excited him and John moaned throatily. He trembled against her, his thighs tensing delightfully as she pushed her thumb deeper. The effects were dramatic; John squirming and thrashing about, trying to escape her thumb and push it deeper inside him at the same time. 

“Is this how your whores act when you impale them with your royal staff?” Isabella said, her voice sweet as honey even as she jabbed him sharply with her thumb, sunk all the way to the knuckle. “I’d be shocked if they moaned and wriggled half as prettily as you.”

John whined unhappily into the mattress, his hands flexing uselessly against his bonds. He looked so helpless, so young. He was mumbling something inaudible as she twisted her thumb inside him, punctuated with sharp gasps.

“I can’t hear you, _chéri_ ,” she said. “Speak up.”

“I’m sorry!” he nearly shouted, lifting his face away from the mattress. His voice was strained, thick with tears.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again, unable to make himself say it. “Please, madam.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” she said calmly, angling her index finger to push into him dry.

The pain shocked him enough to cry out, buck helplessly into empty space.

“I’m selfish and lusty and I treated you poorly!” he gasped out, edging into high-pitched hysteria.

“And?” she prompted gently, grabbing another handful of curls to keep his head upright.

“I-I…” he stuttered, failing to bite back a soft whine as she began fucking him slowly with her fingers.

“You’re a spoiled, naughty little brat who needs a firm hand to teach him some manners,” she finished for him.

“Yes… I’m a… a bad boy…” he choked out, and she could hear the tears in his voice, the little whimpers he couldn’t suppress anymore. 

“ _Oui_ ,” she agreed smugly, but only fucked her fingers deeper.

His sharp cry sounded lovely to her ears.

“Such a good little _putain_ ,” she cooed, finding that spot inside him that made him choke on a sharp gasp and kick his feet fitfully. She stroked it gently and he was truly panting now, his hips thrusting tightly, desperate for more stimulation.

He rocked back and forth in her lap, fucking himself on her fingers. Isabella was rather curious if he could make himself come like that, but surely that would be letting him off too easily. Instead, she withdrew her fingers suddenly and John whimpered, arching his back as he sought them again.

“So greedy,” she muttered. “So lustful. What other sins are burning in that black heart of yours?”

John panted, his breath shallow and hard. 

“I won’t let you come until you tell me,” she said firmly, giving his firm cheek another hard pinch.

John made a sound like a horse whickering and Isabella giggled.

“Go on, tell me your darkest, most sinful thoughts. What horrible, _honteux_ , things do you think about when you rub your prick at night?”

Her king groaned, rocking back into her hand as though he wanted more pain on his abused flesh. His face was turned to the side now and she could see his long eyelashes wet and pointed on his tear-stained cheek. His mouth looked moist and even abused and she saw him chew his lip again, leaving it shiny and red. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath and then said: “I think… I think about being… stripped… naked… a-and being thrown to a group of… common soldiers…”

Isabella grinned, surprised by this candid confession, delighted by his wicked imagination. “And what do they do to you? Fuck you like a common _putain_?” 

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Do they use both of your filthy holes? Paint your face with their spunk? Force you to slick up their cocks with just your mouth before they fuck you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he groaned harshly, hips moving faster now. Isabella had nudged her thigh back under his straining cock, letting him hump like before, as if he were a dog in heat.

“You are filled with sin,” she murmured, stroking the pink skin of his _derrière_ gently, but even a gentle touch must have felt like fire.

The pain only spurred him further and John was rocking lustily over her thigh, rubbing his hard, leaking cock against her through several layers of fabric. Isabella only twisted a hand in his sweat-dampened hair and squeeze his cheek, hot to the touch.

“I knew you could be a good boy, _mon cher_ ,” she cooed softly. “ _Un bon garçon_ for mummy.”

With that, John stiffened, a guttural sound escaping his mouth as hot come seeped through his breeches and her robe. He let out a sharp cry, rutting against her one last time in the throes of his passion. Isabella pet his hair gently, smoothing damp curls from his fevered brow. John let out a weak little sob as the rest of him went slack, slumped over her legs, utterly spent.

Finally taking pity on him, Isabella untied his hands and gently turned him over. John lay there shaking, still breathing hard. His hands shook as he fumbled to fix his clothing, now damp with sweat and cooling spunk. His face was still bright red, shining with tears, almost beside himself with humiliation.

His expression was mulish with indignation when she curled around him, trying to pull him close. He seemed lost for words, too mortified to speak.

“I hope you learned your lesson, _mon roi_ ,” she said softly.

John tried to pull away at first, perhaps to slink off and lick his wounds elsewhere. But Isabella pet his hair and rubbed his chest gently, feeling the still frenzied beat of his heart. Reluctantly it seemed, John sagged against her, laying his head on her chest as she murmured a lullaby her nurse used to sing to her as a child.

He was a stubborn man, her husband. But even the most obstinate dog could be brought to heel with a firm hand.

**Author's Note:**

> débile: stupid  
> mon cher: my dear  
> derrière: behind  
> cul: ass  
> mon amour: my love  
> une jeune fille: a young girl  
> mère: mother  
> bite: cock  
> ma colombe: my dove  
> petite fleur: little flower  
> mon chiot: my puppy  
> chéri: dear  
> putain: whore  
> honteux: shameful  
> un bon garçon: a good boy  
> mon roi: my king


End file.
